Fifty Shades of Purple
by SSAEmilyHotchner
Summary: Oneshot. Slight AU. With numerous hand-shaped bruises on her legs from the night before, Emily is forced into a very awkward - yet completely fulfilling - conversation with her beginning criminology students.


**Author's Note: So, Zimmerman. Y'all remember that one annoying kid who kept pestering Rossi all throughout "Profiling 101"? Well, my Zimmerman isn't really the same kid, but I couldn't think of any other names that seemed suitable enough, so...that ends what I have to say. As always, thank you so much for reading! Hope y'all enjoy this little AU piece.**

******Shout-out to Speetsy for helping me find the _perfect _story title!**

******Disclaimer: I do not own Criminal Minds or any of its characters.**

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The moment Emily walked through the door to her classroom, briefcase in hand, the irritating whispering began once more and seemed to increase in volume with every high-heeled step she took. Without _actually_ listening, she knew what the students were saying to one another; it was obvious, really. The looks on their smirking faces gave it all away.

Especially the expressions of the boys in the front row, the boys who thought they were so charming and irresistible - when in reality, they were your run-of-the-mill, cocky, and yes, _horny,_ college students.

Rolling her eyes and murmuring under her breath as she settled in for her afternoon classes, Emily cleared her throat pointedly, the sound echoing loudly in the spacious lecture hall. "Alright, alright, settle down," she said tersely. She could already tell this wouldn't be a good day.

Her assumption was only further proved when quite possibly her least favorite student, a built young man by the name of Zimmerman, fixated his not-so-innocent grin on her. "Did you have a nice night last night, Mrs. H?"

The whispering stopped. The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees; several girls in the back row shot each other incredulous, wide-eyed glances.

Emily bit back her sarcastic retort, and gave him a thin smile instead. "I did, thank you for asking, Nathan. Now, if we could begin today's lesson -"

"How'd you get those bruises on your legs?"

_God, please grant me the strength to restrain from wrapping my arms around his neck and squeezing the life out of him._ Again, Emily cleared her throat. "I, uh...was moving furniture around the house and accidentally walked backwards into the edge of my coffee table," she lied smoothly. Turning away from Zimmerman, she addressed the rest of the class. "From last night's reading, without looking at your notes, who can tell me the three parts of the homicidal triad?"

Immediately, one of Emily's star students' hands flew up. She was an attractive young girl, who looked as if she had graduated high school two or three years early and was _still_ smarter than the others around her. Her mousy brown ponytail swished back and forth as she thrummed with the eagerness of knowing the answer to her favorite teacher's question.

Emily smiled gratefully. "Yes, Marissa?"

"Animal cruelty, obsession with setting fires, and -"

"- persistent bedwetting," Zimmerman interrupted - to no one's surprise. "But Mrs. H, those bruises look an awful lot like handprints." His grin turned leery. "What else did you do with that furniture of yours?"

"Nathan, that is _enough_," Emily finally snapped. _Such a typical frat boy,_ she told herself, _coming to an afternoon class drunk of his ass._ Her resulting glare was unwavering and not unlike that of her husband. "Get out of my class - and don't come back until you're sober and mature."

His grin and confident countenance faltered for a split second. "But, Mrs. H -"

Emily simply pointed toward the door. _"Out."_

It was quiet for a good long minute; and then, grumbling something under his breath about brunettes always being feisty, Nathan Zimmerman gathered his books, rose to his feet, and exited the lecture hall, slamming the door behind him.

A second later, Emily let a smile curve her red lips. "Moving on, class - Marissa, or anyone else -, what can you tell me about the link between these violent tendencies and parental neglect?"

~.~.~

"Aaron?"

"In the den," he answered, looking up from his newspaper as Emily came padding barefoot into the room, her house keys and black pumps in hand. A smile lit up his face as she leaned over to give him a kiss in greeting - a kiss that rapidly turned into more, with Hotch sweeping his tongue over her cupid's bow, opening her to him with gentle insistence.

Emily moaned against his hard mouth, reveling in the way he never failed to make her feel. Within only a few more seconds, stars invaded her vision, her head spinning all the while.

They broke apart reluctantly, Hotch's large hands resting now on her subtly curvaceous hips. Emily took her bottom lip between her teeth, her eyes sparkling as she gazed into the lust-darkened ones of her husband. "That was one hell of a greeting," she said affectionately.

Hotch's resulting husky laughter only served to set more of Emily's nerve endings on fire. "What can I say? My wife is one hell of gorgeous woman. _Especially_ in that blouse and skirt. I thought about you at work all day." His lips brushed against the shell of her ear, nibbled it, licked it. "You're _intoxicating_, darling."

"Yeah, well...you're not the only one who thinks that, apparently," Emily said frankly - though she thanked him for his compliments with one last kiss.

Hotch's brow furrowed. "Wait, what do you mean?"

_"I mean,_ I shouldn't have listened to you, and I should've gone with slacks instead."

"But..." He fisted the charcoal grey fabric, obviously appalled at the sheer thought. "Why? You look amazing."

"And I have very visible bruises on my legs. Bruises that I pointed out this morning before you decided to ambush me with round three. Bruises that vaguely resemble _hand prints_." She shot him a scorching hot glance. "And you've sat in on my class before; you know all the wiseass boys - all the boys in general, actually - sit in the front couple of rows."

"I can't imagine why." Hotch struggled to keep a straight face.

Emily rolled her eyes, though she really did enjoy his playfulness. It was a side of him no one but she seemed to experience; and she loved every second of it. "Aaron, seriously."

"Was it Zimmerman?" A beat passed. "And did you kick him out this time?"

She smirked at Hotch's knowledge. Of course he knew; he was a profiler, after all, and an astute one at that. "Yes," she answered, "...and yes."

Hotch winced. "Do I_ want_ to know what he told you?"

"Probably not. But long story short, I had to tell him the bruises were from moving furniture around; and then, he proceeded to ask what else I did on the furniture." Emily snorted. "Mouthy little bastard. The sad thing is, he is actually an exceptional student. One of my best, in fact. When he's not drunk, that is."

Hotch pulled Emily onto his lap. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "Want me to kick his ass for you?"

Emily closed her eyes, chuckling quietly to herself. "No need; I think I did a fair amount of ass-kicking today."

"I don't doubt it. But, uh..." Hotch cleared his throat, "there is one thing I need to say. Last night..."

"...was perfect?" Emily hummed contentedly, maneuvering about in his embrace to wrap her arms around his neck and rest her forehead against his. "You don't need to tell me that, Aaron; I knew that already."

"No, no; it was better than perfect." Simultaneously, mental images of their wild coupling came to mind, flashing before their eyes in rapid succession: Emily falling back onto the bed, sandwiched by Hotch's hard body. Torn red lace falling to the ground to the soundtrack of impassioned gasps and sighs. A guttural cry of pleasure; Emily's mouth falling open in a silent scream. The muscles of Hotch's arm flexing almost dangerously. And then...Hotch, in lust-fazed fury, reaching to grab both of Emily's legs, bringing them high up over his shoulders as he dove in._  
_

Emily was almost panting just from thinking about it. She could practically feel his hands still closing around her ankles, her slender shins, marking her tender flesh...

Hotch growled low in his throat. Their shared memories were just too much to handle for any longer. He was about to explode; just as Emily had the night before. "You up for round four?" he rasped.

The renewed need within her reached an overwhelming crescendo. _Zimmerman, be damned. _"That depends," she replied cheekily.

"On?"

Emily gave him a devilish smile. "On where you plan on bruising me next. Nowhere too visible, please."

Hotch simply grinned. "I make no promises."

Then, he carried her off to their bedroom - and that was that.

**THE END.**

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**Author's Note: This story is what happens when the UST of Hotch and Emily's dance in Hit/Run is on my mind during one of my classes; yes, my favorite teacher had bruises on her leg. No, no one made snide comments.**

**But anyway, thank you so much for reading! Please, take a minute to leave a review - it's quick and painless, I promise! Thanks in advance. ;)**


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